Little Hands Make Fun Work

Do you remember how old you were when you first physically felt the effects of real work?  I couldn't wait to get my working papers when I turned fourteen.  I woke up that morning, excited to open my presents from Mom and Dad.  I blew my candles.  Later that day, I was on a train to Brooklyn to fill out an application from the Department of Labor.  I was finally old enough to earn my own income.  Even if I knew that part time hours at minimum wage would only amount to enough money for the movies, I felt enormous pride that day.

I was following in the footsteps of my older brother, who had at that point already worked as a restaurant busboy, pizza delivery boy and McDonald's cashier.  Money was tight for our immigrant family, so it was important for us to develop our own streams of pocket money.

I also remember talking at length with my father about the value of having strong typewriting skills.  This is how he paved a career for himself in government accounting in the Philippines.  He typed and entered data at tremendous speed, with pinpoint accuracy.  He inspired me to start learning how to type on my own at nine-years-old.  I set a newspaper article beside my typewriter and typed what I read, fumbling around the keyboard.  As a result, my semester in junior high school typing class went very smoothly.  I was quickly placed on many short-term clerical assignments during my college summers.  And that helped me to fill in my resume and gather recommendations.

My oldest is now twelve years old; my youngest is eight.  I worry about their generation not having the same kind of impetus and appreciation for work.  It is important to me that they understand where all their stuff comes from; that everything is paid for through hard work, whether the work is done through a complex corporate job or through the physical and emotional labor required in running a household and nurturing a family.

One day, I found myself asking my kids a rhetorical question.

"Everyone in this family has a job," I said.  "Do you know what your job is?"

"Going to school and doing my homework?" said my oldest.

"Putting away my toys?" said my youngest.

I was very happy to see that they were able to discern on their own that they had responsibilities as members of our household.  Over time, they understood the important role they played in the family each time they set or cleared a table or took the dog out for a little play in the yard.  But they could contribute more.

On New Year's Day, we made it a family mission to organize the garage.  It seems that every six months we need to purge family clutter as our busy lives sometimes prevent us from putting things where they belong.  Enough was enough.  We wanted to start the new year with clear minds and unblocked paths.  It worked wonders for all of us.  Every time we opened the garage door, it was so satisfying to see everything in its place.  What I found even more moving about this simple family activity was that we were together all day, evaluating whether or not we still needed something, whether it could be recycled or donated and more importantly, that their little hands made a difference.

Today my youngest accompanied me to work a pancake fundraiser at her school.  Weeks ago, when I read on a school flyer that they were still in need of volunteers, I thought this might be a good opportunity for me to teach her about volunteer work.  When I reminded her last night that we needed to be up early to report at 7:30 a.m., she responded with groans and moans.

"But remember, you committed to this.  Your school is counting on our help," I said.  "There's a lot to do to run a pancake fundraiser and if you don't go, they'll be short one person."

"But I didn't know it was going to be so early!" she whined.

She was dressed and on time, ready to work, but not thrilled about it.  In the car we had a chat.

"Do you know what the word volunteer means?" I said to her.

"Yeah, it means you work for free."

"You're right.  But it also means other things.  You are giving your time and energy."

"To help people!" She finished my sentenced, beginning to perk up.

"Yes, today's pancake fundraiser will raise money to pay for after-school programs and enrichment activities at your school."

"Like basketball, Spanish club and Spirit Days?"

"Yes.  Exactly!"

When we arrived at the school, she was pleasantly surprised to see one of her classmates and recognized other fellow students and their siblings who were also there to work.  These were children of parents who were regular volunteers at school functions.  It was a natural extension of what they do as involved families.  While I poured batter and flipped pancakes and chatted with other volunteer parents, I caught a glimpse of her having fun while she worked.  I heard her busily shuffling around the cafeteria and hallways with her young co-workers, wiping down tables as families finished their pancake breakfasts to prep for new families.  I watched her laugh and smile as she inspected the little red buckets of candies that served as treat bowls and table centerpieces, ready to refill them.  At the end, she helped put away decorations that were hanging on the wall and on the tables.

"Mom, when are we going home?" she finally said to me, dragging her feet and looking utterly exhausted.  Her smiles and energy had been depleted.  Her body now understood the true meaning of work.

"Welcome to volunteer work!" I said to her, embracing her as a matriculated member of our volunteer team.

This brought back some warmth to her face.  As other parents helping with clean-up also commended her on a job well done, her spark came back.  She, too, beamed with pride in the spirit of hard work.

Soul Matters

Soul matters.  What is burning deep inside us as a want, is important.  We are all born with an imprint of what makes us special.  Like flower buds, we each have the potential to bloom with the right nurturing.  It just takes a long time for some of us to recognize who we are and what it takes to make us sing from within.  Hopefully once we honor our souls, our flower petals can open wide in the full sun.
    I have always known since I was a little girl that I wanted to write.  I took every opportunity to write outside of school.  Sometimes it would be a journal entry.  Sometimes it was a letter to the electric company on behalf of my immigrant parents.  Sometimes it was an attempt to write a story.  Other times it was just to share with the world what was going on in my head and in my heart, knowing that the world was never actually going to read it.  I always wrote the truth.  The pen and paper were my best friends.  I usually felt a lot better after writing.
    I was somewhat still on track for a future in writing during high school, even if I was attending a science and math magnet high school.  It was an honor to be accepted into this selective program.  I had taken an entrance examination and my parents and I had prayed for the opportunity to go there.  And it worked.  I got in.  I happily attended Experimental Physics, Mechanical Drawing and Calculus classes along with Literature and Creative Writing classes.  The problem was not during high school when I was aiming to be accepted into a good university liberal arts program.  After freshman year I realized in time that I was following the wrong path toward an unwanted future in engineering.  The following year I declared my major in Literature and Rhetoric but it still all became rather confusing for the next 2 decades.
    After graduation, my absolute, positive certainty about being a writer someday instead became a dream with many questions.  During the early 1990s there was a recession.  People were lucky to have a job offer at all.  Maybe I could write a book on the side, someday, but in what practical profession could I apply my degree?  Would I teach?  Would that be enough to pay rent?  How about law or business instead?
    So I took a fork in the road that led to the business side of advertising, the media department, where my job was to buy print or outdoor space and radio or television broadcast air time.  It's ironic that I did that professionally for 8 years on behalf of my high visibility million dollar advertising clients, and yet every day now that I am free to write, I am battling to carve the right space and time to do what I was always meant to do: write!
    The problem is that what we do for a living is directly attached to our ego and our exterior fashion.  People judge us when we say what we do for a living.  Does it fit us?  Are we providing for ourselves and our families adequately?  Are we making our folks proud?  At some point we all submit to these very revealing questions.  The true question is, are we listening to our inner voice?  What's it saying because that knows more about us than everyone we think knows us inside and out. 
    The old adage is that we don't mind working when we are doing something we genuinely want to do.  There is no question that if I was already a writer when my children were born that I would have found a way to balance my all my loves in my life correctly.  Instead, I found myself writing media plans, press releases, copy for websites and brochures, introductory sales letters, pitch letters, leader speeches, feature articles, news articles, newsletter blurbs...the list goes on. 
    I kept thinking, this isn't me.  My family comes first.  I need to get back on track with my original goal to write.  Books.  Children's books.  Books for women.  Books that inform about something I've learned.  Books that absorb women, make them care and laugh or cry.  So I walked away from promising tracks in advertising, market research, journalism, communications.  I kept getting promoted because I was a hard worker.  I had good business sense.  I learned fast and I was efficient.  They never would have guessed that I was so unhappy.  They figured me for a "lifer."  Well I fooled them all, especially myself. 
    But I do not regret anything I've ever written.  Because I realize that I would not have this perspective or steadfastness now had I not experienced other kinds of writing.  Perhaps that is why I am now able to be direct in my writing and softer when the occasion calls for it.  Perhaps every single person I have met, likeable and grossly unappreciated, will somehow work their way into my books as characters.
    I certainly have met my fare share of pleasant and repulsive types.  Some led hateful, pushy, lazy, smarmy, manipulative and whiney lives while others were sincere, saintly, cheerful, hard-working, earnest and truly inspiring against the odds.  I have worked in such crazy environments that it's a miracle I ever survived them.  I have worked with stoic and robotic workhorses who must also have a soul somewhere in their bodies, screaming to be noticed or to express their true selves. 
    Yes, there are many stories to tell.

Roadway to Rock

Rocking with Dad and his cousin on drums.

I have a healthy son who knows who he is.  He left school today burning to learn more.  Something he doesn't already know.  He has been extremely disappointed with his after-school talented and gifted program, saying that he has not learned anything, that he is not excited by it, that he expected much more from the program.  Science.  More science.  That's what he wants. 
    "But if you go too far ahead, then won't you be bored again when you get to high school science?" I said as I signaled left, pausing with the minivan at the school stop sign until the crossing guard gave the go sign.
    "I don't mind if I learn too much.  At least I'll get into honors science," he said.
    I guess I'll take that as a pat on the back.  I've raised a son who values learning and embraces the unknown.
    "Well, you know you can go ahead and learn all kinds of new material on your own anytime.  You don't need a teacher or a textbook to do that," I continued.
    "What do you mean?"
    "This morning you said you want to learn how to write a song.  You like writing poetry.  Poetry can become lyrics.  I can help you with the creative writing process if you want.  Just don't expect it to come to you all at once.  I've learned that you have to start with thinking about what excites you or saddens you or upsets you.  Think about what you have to say to the world about that topic.  I know a song has an intro, a beginning, middle and end.  But you really should speak to your Dad about songwriting.  He's been writing songs since he was your age."
    This conversation was enough to extinguish his state of frustration and ignite his desire to do new things.
    "Okay, Mom.  After homework today, I'll practice more of that song from yesterday.  I'll work on some MathCounts problems to get ready for the competition and then I'll teach Connor a song."
    After dinner, he jumped from his seat as if he got bitten by another bug.
    "Mom, is it okay if I practice guitar before I do my homework?  I have all this energy and I need to get it out!"
    "Sure!  That's one of the best ways to release energy.  One of my favorites.  Go ahead.  Have fun."  And with that, he ran up the stairs and started strumming on his father's portable guitar. 
    I was really very impressed with him yesterday at his first official rock band practice with two of his best friends.  All of his closest friends play some kind of instrument; some of them more than one.  They were on a mission to learn a rock song, preferably a simple one with only three chords.
    He buzzed around the basement, on the side which is known to family and friends as Dad's dungeon, turning switches on the mother board and amps.  He checked to make sure his friends' rhythm and bass guitars were patched into the right amps.  I helped him set up the keyboard.  He tested all the connections.  Then he released a burst of energy at the electronic drum kit, displaying his coordinated pitter patter on the snare, bass drum and cymbals.  He then announced the name of the first song their band was to learn.  He tracked down the guitar tabs on the Internet as his father suggested and began helping his friends find their way around the chords.  Whether it was the rhythm guitar, bass guitar or the keyboard, he knew enough how to show them what chords and notes to play for the melody.  He is not proficient at any of these instruments, including the drums, but he knew enough to make some semblance of the song. 
    I marveled at how the boys worked together trying to find their way.  Classically trained through the school's orchestra and band, none of these boys had ever had to find their own way through a tune by ear, much less work together to play something that sounds like a few measures of a real song!  Over two hours went by and these boys kept at it.  They only stopped to munch on hot curly fries, banana chips and iced tea that I brought down as a snack.  And then they were back in practice mode.
    I was pleased not only to see that they could engage in an activity other than playing X-Box for this amount of time.  I was very happy when they agreed to play whatever they learned for me and my Blackberry's voice recorder.  I recognized the tune immediately.  They were synchronized.  I shared in their brief moments of musical connection.  I was a very proud mother and witness to twelve-year-old male bonding through the art of music.

A Dog's Smile

Ever since welcoming my Sheltie Mac into my family life, I've developed a new skill.  I now have the ability to truly see a genuine dog's smile.  They are not very different from a human smile.  Eye brows are relaxed; eyes are bright and alert; the corners of the open mouth are turned up and the teeth are showing.  The only differences are that their unusually long or wide tongue is hanging out; their tails are wagging with great energy; and sometimes, they are panting.

I took my dog's smile for granted.

Every time I came home after dropping off the kids at school or running a day of errands, Mac smiled.  He was excited because he would soon have a playmate or at least a set of feet to lay next to while I typed on my laptop.  There was his trademark youthful, joyful, handsome pup face.  Like people, Mac sometimes demonstrated a lower energy smile with a closed mouth; that content look he got with his eyes half-closed while relaxing at his favorite spot on the sunny deck.  If you are a dog owner, I'm sure you've also honed this recognition skill.  It's the true barometer of a happy home.

If the dog is happy, well then it means he's getting a whole lot of love, playtime and attention.  Watch your dog or see if your friends who have dogs agree.  When the dog gets no love, everyone's too busy, too stressed out or too self-absorbed to realize the importance of just being. 

Once the kids are off to school, my daily goal is to walk one mile with Mac.  It's a great opportunity for me to brainstorm and process story ideas in my mind.  Well, for the past week, I've been extremely productive but not with my writing.  I've been donating 95% of my time to a charitable event I am co-chairing.  So many details and people are involved in the planning and preparations for this event.  It has depleted not only my time at home with the family; poor Mac has been on the peripheral of my radar.  Our walks have been abbreviated and his playtime has become less and less predictable.

So lately Mac has passive-aggressively been sending me signals.  His favorite treats have been half-eaten and purposely left in my path in the foyer.  He's been responding with nonchalance when I call for him.  I've had to search each room; he hasn't broken into a gallop when I sing-song his name.  If the house phone or blackberry acts up during our round of tug-of-war, he hasn't insisted that I pay him any mind.  He has simply dropped his end of the rope and curled up in another part of the house to mope.

Today I announced excitedly to Mac that we were going to do our full mile walk.  He was ready.  Then, I suddenly remembered there were two critical e-mail messages I needed to send, right that minute, despite holding the leash in one hand, wearing the house key lanyard around my neck and my right pocket filled with treats and plastic bags.  There she goes again, he must have thought, possessed by that THING!  When we finally reached the street, he led me to believe that he was a willing participant of our walk.

And then he communicated silently yet very clearly.  He sat.  I gave him my usual gentle command.

"Come on, Mac.  Let's go walky walk."

Nothing.

"Let's look for cars!"

Still no movement.

"Come on, don't you want to go sniff some mailboxes?"  He turned his head away with his nose in the air.  I gently tugged his collar with the leash and he defiantly pulled back his head.  I didn't recognize this behavior.  He was usually so agreeable.

"What's wrong, Mac?  You LOVE to walk!"

Silence.  He was earning my full attention.  He quietly basked in his subtle protest.  I approached him slowly and crouched down next to him, looking deeply into his eyes.

"I get it," I whispered into his left ear as I stroked his forehead and back.  "I've been a bad owner.  You're right."

His nose turned away once more.

"I'm really sorry."

This time he looked straight ahead at our original destination, lifted his back end and led me on our way.

In Praise of Small Victories

On this first Monday of a new month, I forgive myself for failing to address many of my intentions.  I started this blog one month ago with the goal of writing a few times per week at some point and this is only my second post.  "So what?" I say to the critic on my shoulder.  "This doesn't mean I didn't write or that I'm less committed."  In fact, I made many journal entries but I saved them in my Daily Blog folder, because I felt they needed more polish.  I started writing a chapter which I have yet to finish.  There's a growing pile of non-critical papers which I hesitate to trash on my kitchen desk.  The kids' things have once again creeped into the crevices of each room in the house.  The now thawed garden is in need of Spring clean up; I started raking and deadheading but left piles of leaves and dried straw that need to be whisked to the far end of the backyard.  The community volunteer work is in full swing but there is still so much to be done.  Like a drum roll, a number of incomplete tasks await my final blast of energy so I can check them off my to do list.

I didn't follow through for the usual reasons; mainly, adult onset ADHD.  I have a tendency to overcommit, which challenges me to constantly re-prioritize.  I realize now after years of struggle that constant juggling leads to firefighting, which I am capable of, but this is not my essence.  My gift to others is my ability to maintain control, to share my energy, and how can I do that if I am constantly depleted?

No, I didn't follow through for the usual reasons; it was because my very ill husband and family desperately needed my focused energy these past two weeks.  Therefore, I put many, less crucial activities on hold.

When my husband landed in the hospital for 8 days, a huge storm of conflict flabbergasted my family.  We needed to situate ourselves in the eye of that storm with him, surround him with our protective tranquility and just let everything else naturally spin around us.  I was okay with this.  In the past I worried about every little thing.  But today it is very clear to me where my attention needs to be.

During those 8 days, I made it my daily goal to keep my chin up and my spirit strong so that my husband and my kids might draw what light they needed from me to get through the day.  I also reached out to family, friends and our community, to harness positive thoughts and prayers that they might be able to radiate toward us.  And boy did they generously do so.  I felt the warmth and the strength.  I let it fill me.

It took 6 days for him to eek out one smile (a Will Ferrell movie).  I missed his confidence, wit and charm.  All that faded into the gloom of his debilitating chronic GI disease.  The kids missed his anchor of strength in the house.  They craved an hour of his awareness; even for just 30 minutes they wanted to infuse him with their lightness of being.

As he heals in the comfort of our home, the kids and I are relieved to be able to help him rebuild his fortress of hope.  We continue to surround him with our love and attention.  We ease back into our familial rhythms.  

This morning my husband gave me a hug.  I was the receiver!  I revel in this small victory :)

Embracing What Matters

Five plus years ago, a very good acupuncturist asked me to fill out a very unique batch of patient application forms.  I had found her practice because I was looking for acupressure massage services close to my home.  I had persistent pain in the back of my neck and upper back and I had no reason to believe that I was seriously ill.  I simply wanted an alternative and drug-free means to address the pain.  I seemed to also be under frequent virus attacks at the time.

I was used to those check-off boxes that listed all sorts of past ailments and symptoms in my health history.  But instead, I was asked to answer revealing questions in narrative form, like I was taking a personality test!  The first box asked me to list the five things I would like to do before I die.  Before I DIE!  Can you imagine bringing up that three letter word to someone obviously interested in maintaining health and wellness?  On the list, I wrote things like author and publish my own books someday and see my grandchildren grow up.  I found out that I was a wood element, which meant that I had a constant need to grow and that I had a tendency to be rigid like wood.  I tended to take safety in roots and shy away from risk.

To make a long story fit into this concise blog format, let me tell you what I finally realized after two years of interviews and needle sessions with my acupuncturist.  The secret to good health was my happiness.  This meant ensuring the alignment of my mind, body and spirit.  Only until I closed the door on a successful yet unfulfilling career in marketing and corporate communications and opened the door to designing a very satisfying "day job" that allowed me to be flexible enough to focus on raising my children, did I have a chance at being happy and healthy.  I honestly don't mind all those after-school minivan shuttles; those precious moments during which I could hear how my son and daughter's day went.  I love that each day now I am one step closer to finishing a manuscript.  I have faith that I'll get paid again someday when the product is done.  It's just that I'm still in the creative production mode.  And I love that I have time to volunteer in the community.

It's been a long, anxiety-ridden road to today.  But I appreciate this crystal clear perspective that I now have and I am grateful for the many life experiences I have gained along the way.  We all have the power to be happy as long as we are willing to take a hard look at how we spend our days and have the courage to make changes.